I hate Vers Libre. But I do it because I can.
Charlie? Well you can google it.
Bring your love baby I could bring my shame,
bring the drugs baby I could bring my pain.
I've got my heart right here,
I've got my scars right here.
He doesn't love her.
He doesn't love her,
and that's evident.
She doesn't want love.
She doesn't want love,
because all she knows is hate and lust,
and love is so far from her.
All she needs is strong arms,
someone to take control
just for once.
She's crazy,
always been crazy,
always been out of control.
(So sometimes foreign concepts like control are better than okay)
It's another anomaly.
Another anomaly to be this far in lust
that she loses herself.
Loses herself like she's lost so many others
in the folds of her sheets,
in the expanse of her mind;
forgotten.
It's so beautiful
and Bella doesn't know beautiful.
Not real beauty.
(Desirability and beauty are so different when it comes to girls like her).
She's a beauty,
beautiful.
Yes, anyone could tell you
she's beautiful.
Of course she's beautiful
in an ugly sort of way.
Ugly heart, ugly soul,
enticing mouth.
(You should hear the things said about those lips).
But he's just as bloody.
Red and tainted and imperfect.
Bloody.
And of course she needed to be different,
to prove that superficially,
she could have beauty too.
(And in that way, she and Cissy are exactly alike).
Black women lust tangibly,
physically,
oh so ridiculously.
Black women don't have tender touches
it's rough,
it's rough and hungry.
She's ravenous
and he is devoured.
Slowly at first,
like it's simply a test.
To tease and test and then relent
into pleasure.
Dipping into it,
lower, lower, lower,
touching it with her face,
tongue lapping, nose twitching
breathing.
Faster later,
building and building
and fucking building
until he simply can't take it
and disappears.
Simply disappears.
She thinks he's weak
she could hold and hold and hold out
just to prove that she's strong.
(Nothing is as important as being strong).
But he's different.
He's all white and powdery
and physically, that's no shock.
But he's beneath that too,
deep within,
just like her.
He's no doll she's created,
no innocent she's corrupted.
He's that all on his own.
He's just as dangerous,
a fucking race-car
going a thousand miles an hour
in the wrong lane.
A space ship,
headed on a collision course with mars.
She loves it.
She loves it,
god,
she does.
And that's where she's falling faster.
Faster and faster into lust.
(Or is it?)
Because she's never seen him.
Never seen him,
for what he really is
before.
Not like this,
not like the tiger who can match her,
a psychotic
mind, all on his own.
She's not looking for love.
She swears she's not looking for love.
She's in lust.
She swears she's in lust.
No one can crazy her like this
no one can make her lose control –
and oh god what was that?
She's completely in control of the situation
in as much control as she has ever been.
Losing her mind perhaps,
if it were not that she had
already lost it.
(Lost it, but never in the name of love).
She's always used these boys
for pleasure.
But pleasures like this?
Has she ever known it?
She would love to answer
herself
properly.
The only words coming out of her mouth
well, they aren't words.
There's no sentences,
or phrases,
or even colloquialisms with no real structure.
They're just incomprehensible.
Incomprehensible
murmers.
Lust,
love,
loveliness.
Hands,
hands so rough and crude.
Hands she used to lust after but cannot any longer
take him away from her.
And It's painful to think of it,
giving him up
even for a second.
And she hands Charlie to Rodolphus.
The Weeknd - Wicked Games